Sargon the Third: Michelle Reagan, #4

By Scott Shinberg

With surprising reach and deadly accuracy, "Sargon the Third" launches terror attacks that kill hundreds across the United States and Europe.

"The action is better than Mission Impossible movies, the thriller element is out of this world, and the character development is incredible." ~ Readers' Favorite Book Reviews, Rabia Tanveer (5 STARS)

"...an exciting journey from go to Woah! ...an enthralling spy thriller that will keep readers turning the pages in anticipation of the next move." ~ Readers' Favorite Book Reviews, Grant Leishman (5 STARS)

Protected by corrupt government officials, this self-proclaimed king rises to power in the Middle East. To find and stop the shadowy terrorist monarch, the Director of the CIA entrusts the kill order to the Agency's top covert operations team.

Michelle Reagan—code name Eden—races against the clock to prevent Sargon's deadliest attack yet. To find him, she must master all the tools of her trade, from spies and surveillances, to propositions and prostitutes. Interrogating bankers and fighting bodyguards stretches Eden past her emotional and physical limits. Overmatched in the fight for her life, Eden is pushed to do something she'd hoped with all her heart she would never be forced to do—point her deadliest weapon at herself.

EVOLVED PUBLISHING PRESENTS a non-stop thrill ride with action galore, insights into covert action tradecraft, and descriptions of exotic locales around the globe so detailed you can smell them. 'Sargon the Third' is perfect for fans of Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, Dean Koontz, Brad Meltzer, and Len Deighton. [DRM-Free]

"...everything a fan of Clancy, Koontz, and Ludlum seeks in a story: the heart-pounding action, the suspense, and the unexpected twists we love in the thriller genre." ~ Readers' Favorite Book Reviews, Tom Gauthier (5 STARS)

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781622536627

Scott Shinberg

Scott Shinberg has served in leadership positions across the US Government and industry for over twenty-five years. He has worked in and with the US Air Force, the Department of Homeland Security, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and most “Three-Letter Agencies.” While in government service, he served as an Air Force Intelligence Operations Officer and a Special Agent with the FBI. He lives in Virginia with his wife and sons.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The distinctive crack-crack of AK-47 rifle fire aimed at the sprinting CIA officer grew louder as the platoon of pursuers raced forward for the kill. The bullets’ sharp reports echoed in waves along the narrow canyon’s rock walls.

The powerful combination of adrenaline and the human brain’s instinctual need to survive powered the American’s life-or-death footrace north through the ancient Iranian mountain pass. As each 7.62mm bullet slammed into the dusty rock walls of the old smugglers’ passage, shards of superheated lead spewed in all directions. Each fragment searched for soft American flesh to shred.

Shouts from the two-dozen Iranian tribesmen rose in pitch behind the American runner and grew louder with each stride. The barks of their leader motivated his militiamen to catch the thief who dared steal from their sultan’s courier.

The narrow pass of timeworn rock formed from compressed volcanic ash weaved through northwestern Iran. It wound its way through the region where historically fluid borders with Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan meet in a tangle of map lines whose shapes exist for reasons long-lost to time. The tribesmen pursuing the American knew the trail well. For millennia, they and their ancestors smuggled weapons, drugs, alcohol and slaves through it to eager markets on the other side—in Azerbaijan.

The sprinting thief threw foot after boot-clad foot and pushed a gloved hand off the edge of the narrow pass’s fifty-foot-high walls to spin around a sharp turn. A quarter mile ahead, which felt more like a marathon, the border offered the hope of safety. If everything went as planned—never a certainty in this CIA officer’s line of work—a ride home waited there, safely inside the far friendlier Nakhchivan Republic of Azerbaijan.

Bullets screamed over the panting thief’s head, tearing through the air with the tortured sounds of metal cables twanged by unseen hands. The American zigged to the left, dodged a jagged outcropping of rock and grunted in relief at the sight of the bend in the canyon where the narrow path ahead zagged to the right. The runner—dressed in black pants, a mud-brown jacket and black turban concealing both hair and face—skidded to a halt before the bend, kicking up bits of gravel and dust. Ever so carefully, the CIA officer turned the corner, stepped over a barely visible tripwire installed the evening before, and bolted forward, running flat-out for dear life.

A few yards ahead, the winded runner slowed and spun around another curve in the canyon’s path. Ten yards further, the rocky ravine ended abruptly and opened into a broad, lush green field across which tall grasses sparkled with dew in the morning sunlight. Without pausing for even a heartbeat, the black-clad figure barreled straight ahead and charged into the flat grassland as fast as the five-foot-five-inch-tall figure’s thighs could pump.

Behind the runner, an explosion echoed loudly from the narrow canyon opening. The lead pursuer had caught the tripwire with his shin, detonating four Claymore mines—two in front of the pursuers and two aimed down from above. The canyon’s natural shape created a rock-solid coffin. Eight of the pursuers died in the blast as ball bearing-sized shrapnel tore through the men caught in the confined space. Behind them, the militiamen following slowed their pursuit to step over the mangled bodies of their comrades and carefully make their way around the two final turns checking for any more traps laid by the American. The tribesmen worried far more about what their sultan would do to them and their families if they failed to retrieve the stolen items than whatever this lone thief could possibly do to the remaining dozen militiamen once they got to the open field ahead. Once exposed and unprotected by rock walls, the thief would be at their mercy—of which they intended to show absolutely none.

In the verdant field, the CIA officer’s heart pounded with each long stride through knee-high grass and crossed the invisible border into Azerbaijan. The runner headed directly toward the open cargo door of a US Marine Corps MV-22 Osprey sitting like a gray monolith in the field fifty yards ahead. A hybrid aircraft, the Osprey has the wings of an airplane on which sit two rotatable engines, each topped by a three-bladed prop-rotor. When rotated up, the unique design allows the Osprey to take off and land like a helicopter. When the engines point straight ahead, the Osprey flies like an airplane. The prop-rotors of the slate-colored beast in the field that morning spun nearly invisibly above the aircraft’s tilted wings, angled up toward the blue sky—and freedom.

Six Iranian militiamen in their traditional tribal dress of white shirts and brown jackets emerged from the canyon and ground to a halt at the unexpected sight of the ungainly aircraft. The men coming up from behind surged into the gaggle in front, and all gasped at the sight of the strangely shaped aircraft in the otherwise empty field of tall grass.

The tallest of the tribesmen looked behind him as the remaining men stepped into the field. After assuring himself that his men were with him, he shifted his gaze to the figure in black only seconds away from reaching the aircraft. More afraid of what awaited him back in his village if he failed than of what the unarmed figure racing away from him might do, he brought his rifle up and aimed. The others followed his lead, confident their sultan would reward them for stopping the thief, regardless of which side of the border it occurred on. After all, one day, if they were successful, borders would disappear once their sultan united all nations under his benevolent rule.

Halfway to the Osprey, the CIA officer glanced back and saw the militiamen spreading out and raising their rifles. Running for your life has a way of focusing one’s attention on the task at hand. The thief threw foot after foot, pumped arms like an Olympian and inhaled deeply to benefit from every extra molecule of oxygen the grass field was creating that morning.

Immediately after the runner passed by them in the field, eight camouflaged Kevlar helmets rose in unison from the tall grass. Two four-man fire teams of US Marines rose to their knees, leveled M-4 rifles at the Iranians and opened fire. They unleashed a thunderous refrain of 5.56mm automatic weapons fire, which clashed with the low growl of the aircraft’s engines as the pilot powered up for a rapid escape.

Within five seconds, half of the pursuing Iranian militiamen fell to the Marines’ deadly fusillade.

The CIA officer never broke stride, barreling past the Marines and directly at the plane and—most importantly—its promise of safety.

The surviving tribesmen returned fire at the Marines, missing everything they shot at.

The Marine Staff Sergeant on the far left of their line fired a 40mm round from the M320 grenade launcher mounted beneath his M-4. Two seconds later, the round exploded against the rock face to the side of the canyon entrance.

Screams of pain rose from three wounded Iranians who fell and rolled in the dirt at the edge of the field—a field becoming soaked with their tribesmen’s blood.

The other seven Marines continued firing their M-4s at the Iranians who survived the grenade’s merciless detonation.

At the rear of the militia’s pack, a teenage Iranian retreated behind the rock canyon’s outer wall. His AK-47 clattered in his quivering hands as he tried to control the heavy wood-and-steel rifle against his heaving chest. With a single eye, he snuck a peek around the corner at the slaughter in the field from which he just narrowly escaped. The boy’s eyes narrowed into slits at the sight of his fatally wounded uncle, rolling on the ground in agony a dozen feet away. The older man wailed from the combination of grenade shrapnel and chunks of rock impaled into his back.

The boy retreated to safety behind the canyon wall. He howled at the anguish he saw his uncle enduring. Sobbing uncontrollably, the boy extended his rifle beyond the edge of the canyon wall, pulled the trigger and fired blindly into the field until his AK-47’s magazine ran dry.

Six feet short of the ramp leading into the Osprey’s cargo bay, a lone 7.62mm round from the teenager’s rifle tore into the bottom of the CIA officer’s right boot. The force of the bullet knifing through the rubber sole threw the black boot forward and spun the American to the ground, ass over tea kettle.

The two Marine fire teams continued firing at the teenager protected by the canyon walls, but their bullets found only rock. Two by two, the leathernecks maneuvered deftly from their firing line, walking backward toward the ramp leading into the Osprey’s rectangular cargo bay. The first pair of Marines to reach the CIA officer knelt and lifted their passenger by the first handhold they could grab—straps of the rugged black backpack worn by the grunting figure.

As the last two Marines stepped up the ramp into the Osprey, the MV-22’s pilots launched the aircraft from the ground and swung their bird into a violent turn to the west.

The howl of the Osprey’s pair of Rolls-Royce engines reverberated throughout the cargo bay as the pilots pressed its two power plants for every ounce of acceleration needed to get the aircraft and its passengers to safety. On the cargo bay’s floor, the Marines flipped their passenger faceup and clamped an intercom headset over the CIA officer’s ears. A US Navy Corpsman donned his own headset and dropped to his knee to inspect his patient for whatever injury the impact of the Iranian bullet caused.

Don’t worry, the Corpsman said over the intercom, you’re in good hands now. I’m gonna take good care of you, man.

The Navy medic ran his hands down his patient’s right leg to feel for anything wet—the telltale sign of blood. He felt nothing out of the ordinary, but his nose wrinkled at the acrid odor hanging in the air—burnt rubber.

The Corpsman inspected his patient’s right boot and gasped. The cowardly Iranian’s bullet had found its mark, and a semi-circular groove ran the three-inch length of the heel, almost directly down the center.

The patient groaned and reached for the damaged boot and the twisted ankle encased inside.

The medic pulled a hook knife from his belt and easily sliced through the black laces from the top of the boot down to its toe. Let’s see if your ankle is swelling or maybe sprained. Just lay back, man, he said through the intercom. I got you. You may have twisted your ankle, dude. He slid the damaged boot off, tossed it aside and pulled his patient’s sock down.

As the black sock came off, five pink-painted toenails wiggled into view. The medic flinched and dropped his patient’s bare foot onto the aircraft’s steel deck.

The patient’s heel bounced off the cold metal floorplate, and she yelped in surprise. Through the intercom, Michelle Reagan—CIA codename Eden—snarled, "Oww! That hurts, dude." She unwrapped the turban from her face, sat up and caressed her tender ankle.

Sorry! the medic blurted out, and raised his hands in mock surrender. He sat back on his heels, thought for a moment, and added, "Umm, ma’am."

Eden slithered the backpack off her shoulders and roughly yanked out its contents. She examined the two Huawei cell phones and a pair of Lenovo laptop PCs, fearing that either the canyon walls she banged against or an irate Iranian’s bullet might have caused irreparable damage to the electronics she traveled halfway around the world to appropriate from the terrorist leader’s henchmen. Not finding any visible damage, she hugged them to her chest and sighed in relief.

Eden returned the electronics to the padded backpack and zipped it securely closed. Slowly, to avoid falling over as the aircraft banked, she lifted herself onto one of the gray, padded, fold-down seats built into each side of the Osprey’s cargo bay and buckled herself in.

The Navy Corpsman pointed to her bare ankle, and asked, Ma’am, may I? I’ll wrap an ice pack on it. You know... to keep the swelling down.

She nodded and leaned back in her seat. As the medic lifted her foot from the aircraft’s deck, she keyed the microphone on her intercom. "Have I mentioned how much I hate working inside Iran? I fucking hate Iran. Nothing good ever happens to me in Iran. Absolutely. Nothing. Good. Ever!"

Eden looked around the Osprey’s small cargo bay at the team of eight Marines, one Navy Corpsman, and an aircraft crew chief all blinking rapidly while staring at her. The ten men sat or knelt around her, waiting to see what the woman they just helped escape from an Iranian militia would do next.

She shrugged. Just sayin’....

Chapter 2

Back in the Iranian militiamen’s village, an eight-year-old sprinted as fast as he could to the far end of town. The boy, dispatched to summon Behrouz Heidari, ran his heart out to the home in which the sultan’s man usually stayed when visiting. The boy huffed for breath and slapped his palms on the wooden door of the single-story house until the widow living there pulled it open. She scolded the boy fiercely for the early morning interruption.

Between gulps of air and body-wracking sobs, the boy got his message across. "They killed my father. Tell the sultan’s man! My mother sent me to tell you to tell her cousin to come quickly. Now. Right now! Hurry!"

The woman’s heart fell. Her first thoughts were of the sorrow the boy’s mother must be feeling. She became a widow herself five years earlier when her own husband died in Iraq training Shi’a fighters to resist the Great Satan’s imperialist army. The pain still hung heavy in her heart every time she looked at her own empty bed—empty except when Behrouz visited. She turned to relay the message to her houseguest but saw his distinctive six-foot-two-inch frame standing in the hallway of the small home she shared with her son and daughter.

I heard, the lanky man said, and joined her at the front door. He looked at his hostess. Pack my things. I may not be able to stay as long as I’d hoped.

Heidari knew the way through town perfectly well but followed the boy’s lead in the early morning light. He strode purposefully through the ancient village—too small and insignificant to appear on any map—known to the locals as Smugglers Respite.

The front door to his cousin’s house stood open, and the gathering crowd parted as he approached. Heidari entered the house he knew so well and stopped short at the grotesque sight. The body of his cousin’s husband lay on its back, slumped against a wall with his head cocked at an unnatural angle. Bloodstains dotted the chest of the man’s white cotton nightshirt, and pools of red liquid stained the colorful living room rug around him.

Heidari stepped forward and looked around the room. His cousin knelt at her husband’s side and wailed high-pitched cries of sorrow and anger. Her four daughters sprawled on the floor of the next room, holding each other tightly and weeping quietly.

Heidari approached his cousin and held his arms out. She stood and embraced the tall man who held her firmly. What happened? he whispered in her ear.

It took a minute for the shaking woman to get the words out. I heard him screaming at the thief. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t hear any gunshots, but I heard the front door slam and then there was shouting outside. I found him.... She pointed to her husband’s corpse and her knees buckled.

Heidari caught his cousin mid-fall and helped her to a chair. There, he left her in the company of three other women from the village. He walked over to the distraught woman’s late husband and bent down to examine the body. He lifted the man’s nightshirt to look at the wounds. Four bullet holes trailed red and black rivulets of blood. One pair of bullets entered the man’s stomach while the others were higher, centered over what Behrouz imagined was his heart. Not being a trained fighter, he did not recognize the expertise of the shooter but concluded correctly that anyone struck by four bullets was unlikely to survive. Heidari specialized in the financial tools his sultan needed to grow their expanding organization, not the military affairs in which much of the rest of the organization excelled.

He stood, looked at his cousin and walked over to her. He knelt beside her chair, and softly asked, "You said your husband was screaming about a thief. What did he—"

Behrouz stood and spun around. He rapidly scanned the empty wooden table in the corner that he and the now-dead man had placed next to one of the few electrical outlets in the house. Heidari’s face flushed, and he screamed, "Where are the computers? My phones!"

His cousin sobbed but didn’t answer. She buried her face in her hands while another woman tried to comfort her.

A strained voice from outside the house grew louder. "Move aside. Get out of my way. Let me in. A teenager carrying an AK-47 pushed his way through the crowd peering into the house. He inhaled with raspy gasps as he came to an abrupt halt. He leaned against the doorframe while trying to catch his breath. He placed his rifle against the open door, but his hands shook, and the old wood-and-metal rifle clattered to the floor. He took two deep breaths and struggled to get the words out. They’re... all dead. He pushed a hand into his chest as if to keep his lungs from exploding. The thief... got away. The teenager slumped to the floor and his chest heaved. I ran... all the way back. My uncle...."

Heidari marched over to the boy and stood above him, growling. Loudly, he asked, "Your uncle was the thief?"

The boy shook his head violently. "No, sir. My uncle’s dead. He gathered the village militia to chase the thief. I... went with them. I’m almost a full member now, he said proudly. We ran as fast... as we could through the old smugglers’ pass to catch the thief. Then there was an explosion... up ahead of me, and a lot of men died."

Heidari spoke rapidly, not giving the sixteen-year-old a chance to answer. What happened to the thief? Did you see what he stole? What was he wearing? Where did he go?

The boy quivered as he answered. "I don’t know what he took. He had a backpack on, but he got away. A black backpack. He placed his hand over his racing heart and pressed as if that were the only way to keep it inside his chest. The soldiers in the field came out of nowhere. They must have already been there, waiting to ambush us. They killed everyone, even my uncle."

"What soldiers?"

I don’t know, the teenager said immediately, and used some of his regained strength to stand up straight as he addressed his elder. "Just soldiers. They wore green clothing the color of grass and wore helmets. We thought we’d catch the thief when he ran into the open field, but the soldiers just appeared out of nowhere. The thief didn’t stop and just kept running into the helicopter plane. The soldiers killed everyone in the militia. They shot at me but missed every time. The soldiers had grenades and machine guns. We shot at them, too, and then there was another explosion. The thief in the black turban and brown jacket just kept running and running, right up the ramp and into the helicopter plane."

Heidari eyed the boy who’d finally managed to catch his breath, and slowly asked, ‘Helicopter plane?’ What do you mean? Was it one or the other?

The boy straightened his posture and addressed his elder more formally, "Sir, I shot the thief. I’m sure I got him because he fell, but the soldiers picked him up. They carried him inside and flew away."

"Boy, answer me! What is a helicopter plane?"

I’ve never seen anything like it before. It was big! The boy struggled to describe the MV-22 Osprey. "It had two propellers on top like a helicopter but two wings like an airplane. It was both. The thief and soldiers ran right into its big open back. It took off straight up like a helicopter and then flew away forward like an airplane. I’m telling you the truth, sir. It was both."

Heidari shook his head in disbelief. With no military training, he didn’t understand the boy’s ramblings. How could something like he described possibly exist?

So, Heidari asked, if the soldiers killed everyone else in the militia, how did you survive?

The boy’s shoulders rolled forward. I... I kept shooting and shooting at them. I must have hit the thief because he fell down. I... knelt down to pick up two magazines of ammunition from the man near me and just kept shooting until the thief flew away. I shot at the helicopter plane until I ran out of bullets. Then I ran home as fast as I could to tell you what happened. I was sure you’d want to know everything.

Heidari knew he wasn’t getting the full story from the young man and chewed his bottom lip while debating what to do next. He looked at his cousin’s dead husband and shook his head. The sultan would be beside himself at the loss of the computers—computers the dead man who worked for Heidari was responsible for. But, ultimately, it was his own responsibility, and his alone. He felt the smallest satisfaction knowing the financial transactions on the two computers were encrypted on the hard drives, so the information would be useless to whomever stole it—or at least that’s what he’d tell the sultan.

Heidari looked again at the body slumped against the wall. He frowned at the thought that he’d now have to find another multi-lingual courier experienced in the subtle arts of concealments and smuggling. Someone who wouldn’t draw attention while carrying financial orders to Malta in place of his cousin’s dead husband. The murdered man whose centuries-old family business of running contraband across a half-dozen borders had made him a natural for the job and would be hard to replace. Hard, yes, but, eventually, everyone’s replaceable.

Heidari looked at the teenager and decided it would be better to bring a scapegoat to the sultan to explain the loss of the computers and cell phones rather than face Sargon alone. You will come with me, he said to the boy. I don’t understand what a helicopter plane is, so you’ll have to explain it to the sultan’s men yourself.

No, sir, I can’t leave. I have... I have to tend to my uncle’s flock. Now that he’s dead, we have to have the funeral and—

Heidari stepped close to the teenager, looked down at him, and slowly said, The other men of the village will attend to that. So, go. Pack a bag. You’ll be gone for one week. And, he thought, probably won’t live past that, anyway.

Chapter 3

Michelle Reagan sat on the sofa in the safe house with her right foot propped up on an ottoman. She lowered the temperature of the heating pad wrapped around her ankle and watched her team lead, Michael, as he rose from the chair to her left.

They’re late, he grumbled, which accentuated his fading West Texas drawl. The athletic man with white hair glowered at his watch and turned to the window beyond which the streets of Yerevan, Armenia’s capital, stretched in a tree-lined grid. He pulled the curtain aside a few inches to peer outside. He scanned from the driveway to the front lawn and into the distance where a snow-capped Mount Ararat loomed on the horizon southwest of the city. The almost seventeen-thousand-foot-high peak on the Turkish side of the border—believed by some to be the final resting place of Noah’s Ark—soared above the Ararat Plain which extended across the borders of Turkey, Armenia and Iran.

They’ll be here, Michelle assured him. Don’t worry. Alex knows what he’s doing.

Her boss nodded in agreement at Michelle’s confidence in Alex Ramirez, her partner on their covert action team from CIA’s Special Activities Center—the SAC. He let the curtain fall back into place. It should only be a forty-five-minute drive from the airport.

Sure—she turned the heating pad off, letting it fall away from her foot—"if you’re not running a full surveillance-detection route. I planned the SDR with him. It’ll be fine. It’s a three-hour route, and he has the experience to do it perfectly well."

Michael nodded at his protégé and looked at his watch again. Yes, but it’s already been four hours. He looked over at Michelle. Do you want me to make you an omelet, or something?

"Michael, stop mothering me, will you? I’m fine. Michelle pulled her sock on and folded the top down to match the one on her left foot. My ankle didn’t swell much to begin with, and it’s almost all gone now. I can’t even feel it, what with all the ibuprofen I’ve been taking."

The revving of a car pulling into the driveway brought a smile to the face of the CIA team lead. He nudged the curtain aside again, and, with measurable relief, said, That’s them. He turned to look at Michelle whose right hand now rested on the handgrip of the Sig Sauer pistol resting on the end table. He let the curtain drop. I’ll open the garage door.

Michelle nodded. She placed the pistol on the sofa next to her and covered it with a throw pillow.

Michael, Alex Ramirez and a third man Michelle did not know entered the house from the garage. The newcomer carried a briefcase and pulled a well-traveled black roll-aboard suitcase behind him.

Alex made the introductions. Mike, this is John from the Directorate of Science and Technology. John, Mike. And on the couch over there is Eden. Watch your wallet around her. She’s a terror at the poker tables.

Michael shook hands with the newcomer. Welcome to Yerevan. How was the drive?

Fine, thanks. We ran into a couple of friends along the way, but Alex took care of them. John looked around the room. May I set up on the dining room table, or should I work upstairs?

Alex hefted his guest’s suitcase onto the wood veneer of the dining room table.

Michael gestured to the table. Use whatever space you need. You’re our guest of honor.

Michelle withdrew her pistol from under the pillow. She depressed the Sig’s decocking lever with her thumb, and the hammer clicked twice softly as it dropped into its safe position.

At the sound of the metallic clicks, John snapped his neck to look at Eden as she placed the pistol, topped with a five-inch suppressor, back onto the side table.

She covered it with the pillow and smiled at the newcomer. Never know who’s going to walk through the door, do you, John from DS&T?

The pudgy redhead in his late twenties gulped. No, I guess you don’t.

Alex clapped John between his shoulder blades. And you also shouldn’t make any bets with her on the firing range, either. Trust me, the former Navy SEAL advised his guest. "I learned that the hard way."

John opened his two bags and began setting up his equipment on the dining room table.

Michael asked Alex, "So, you ran into a few friends on the way here, did you? What was that all about?"

Oh, the athletic man with a scruffy black beard said to his boss, it’s nothing I couldn’t handle. Three cars followed us once we left the airport. I ran the SDR just like Eden and I planned it. I lost them in a parking garage when we made the vehicle switch about an hour later. After that, I used two of the contingency routes she and I scoped out, so it took us longer to get here than I hoped. But it worked.

Michael’s head nodded almost imperceptibly. He would have preferred Eden had picked up their guest after his flight from Germany but had chosen to let her rest her ankle. Well, the white-haired CIA executive said, the Armenians are either going to continue watching that car or, by now, they’ve already installed an electronic tracker on it. Forget about that one, Alex. I’ll tell the undercover travel coordinator where it is, and they can let the rental agency know where to pick it up.

A few feet away, John booted up two laptop computers. He attached a power adapter with two round European-style plugs onto a power strip and watched his electronics come to life. He looked at Michael. Where’s the equipment you want me to examine?

"Under